Just days before I discovered my husband Mark’s sex addiction, we were shopping in Target, when we passed a young woman. “Hi, Mark!” she chimed, smiling brightly. Then she turned to her shopping companion, a man who was glowering at Mark, and said, “Jimmy, this is my friend Mark, you know, the one I’ve told you about. I’ve been having such a great time with him lately!” Then turning back to us, she introduced Jimmy as her boyfriend and chatted for a while before cheerfully parting with: “Well, it’s been such fun to run into you here. Bye, Mark! See you tomorrow?”

“Um, yes,” Mark replied, with much less enthusiasm than she showed.

I had no idea who this woman was, although she obviously knew Mark well enough, had been spending time with him lately and was planning on seeing him again tomorrow. As she walked away, I whispered to Mark, “Who was that?”

“That’s, um, Ashley.”

“Who’s Ashley? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned her before.”

“Really? I haven’t? She, um, works at Starbucks.”

“She seems to know you pretty well.”

“Well, I go in there every day, and the servers get to know the regular customers. It’s good business. You know, they learn what you like and they try to make you feel welcome, so you’ll keep coming back. That kind of thing.”

And it was true that Mark was a regular at Starbucks. He was out of work at the time, and I was pregnant and a stay-at-home mom to our two year old son, which made our home a less than perfect environment for concentrating on a job search. So, each morning Mark would get up at about the time he would usually go to work, take his laptop and head to Starbucks where he would work on his résumé, send out job queries via e-mail and do research online. This much I knew. Apparently, along with the work finding a job, he spent time chatting with Ashley.

Still, as surprised and uncomfortable as I felt about this encounter, that was Mark — at least as I knew him then. Of course, he would spend time chatting with folks at Starbucks; Mark was always sweet, charming and friendly. And of course, having a nice regular customer like Mark would make Ashley’s work easier and more pleasant. I was a little crazy (as was Ashley’s boyfriend) to feel suspicious about this, wasn’t I? Just more proof, I told myself, of my irrational and jealous mind, as I tried to put thoughts of Ashley out of my head.

And I might have been successful at forgetting her if it weren’t for the fact that, days later, I found out about Mark’s sex addiction and the whole picture changed. I found out that Mark had Ashley’s e-mail address and had been carrying on a flirtatious private correspondence even outside of business hours. And Ashley wasn’t the only one: Mark’s Palm Pilot had a list of women he’d met during his mornings at Starbucks, each one with a physical description and a short summary of her interests, likes and dislikes. He would use the notes to woo the women by showing how interested he was in the things that interested them, talking to one about the latest episode of CSI and another about jazz music.

Among the many demands I made of Mark in those early days after disclosure was one that he not visit any Starbucks ever again. But since giving up his sexual compulsions turned out to be easier than giving up his tall mocha frappuccinos, we compromised on not visiting the Starbucks where Ashley worked again.

Tonight, Mark and I went out for coffee. Mark headed for the Starbucks closest to our home, but I reminded him that it closes early, and suggested we go a bit further to a larger Starbucks that is open later. As we were sitting there enjoying our gingerbread spiced beverages, I said, “I want to do some writing tonight, but I can’t think of what to write.”

“Write about Starbucks,” he said.

I looked at my drink and the picture of the red velvet cupcake on the wall and couldn’t think what I’d have to write about Starbucks. It actually took a few minutes before it hit me. Starbucks. There was a time when I couldn’t come anywhere near this place without being thrown into an attack of post-traumatic stress. I couldn’t walk in without wondering which of the baristas Mark would have slept with if he hadn’t found recovery when he did.

“Oh,” I said, minutes later, “I could write about Starbucks.”

“That’s what I said,” said Mark. “See! I am your muse!”

“It’s just that I forgot.”

“You forgot? And this was the Starbucks!”

“Hey, look how healed I am!” I said, and then joked, knowing I’d long ago let up on forcing Mark to boycott this particular store, “Wait. This was the Starbucks? Then you’re not even supposed to be in here! I thought I told you never to come in here again!”

“But I’m here with you, because you wanted to come, baby,” he laughed, “Besides we let go of all that years ago, remember?”

“Yes.” I said, smiling, “I guess we did.”